


angels and omegas

by fogsrollingin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Collars, Crying, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Omega Dean Winchester, Sexual Slavery, Slave Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21597580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fogsrollingin/pseuds/fogsrollingin
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world of nomadic angels and territorial alphas that brought draconian law and omega slavery back into practice soon after the Rapture, Dean is a collared omega forced to work at Chicago’s Navy Pier. Castiel is the angel that saves him.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 75
Collections: 2019 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	angels and omegas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liliaeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liliaeth/gifts).



> Here is my Reverse Bang fic! Thank you so much to the reverse bang mods and to [liliaeth, for her tremendous work that inspired it!](https://liliaeth.livejournal.com/509404.html)
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fanwork has been posted to AO3.org, a website that databases fanworks for free & without ads. If you are told this fic is behind a paywall, that's super false and most definitely a scam. AO3 is a fanworks database run by the Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), a U.S. federal nonprofit. Please consider [donating](https://otw.cividesk.com/civicrm/index.php?q=civicrm/contribute/transact&reset=1&id=17) so they can keep the lights on in here 😊

“You seem ill. I’ve got aspirin,” Castiel offered Dumah as she pinched the bridge of her nose behind the wheel. 

“Mm, no I’m fine, Castiel. Thank you,” she replied evenly, blinking the sun out of her eyes before bringing her visor down. Cas followed suit in deference. They were driving anywhere, everywhere, nowhere all at once. Aside from the usual winds and vehicular noises of moving through American wasteland, it was quiet. 

Dumah was never one for chatter but Castiel missed the sounds. He missed the humans and their faith: no one prayed anymore. 

The times of One True God were over. All the surviving humans went back to the pagan lunar gods. It was an understandable transition with the unavoidable result being that Castiel rarely heard from anyone these days. 

His brethren took it in stride, some even appreciated the silence. Castiel mourned.

It was spring, in what the humans from before would’ve called 1997 A.D. Now it was 7 P.R., Post Rapture. In 1990 AD or 0 PR, God took most of the humans and angels. The few angels remaining, the ones God had abandoned, had already been walking the Earth for some time. It wasn’t difficult to surmise God had abandoned those angels who’d fallen in love with Earth and its inhabitants. It was the angels’ last devastating revelation.

In the wake of this demoralizing apocalypse, the angels banded together on Earth. Their powers greatly reduced but not altogether gone, they kept to themselves and navigated the planet as nomads. This lifestyle made the angels unique, as all remaining humans PR were fiercely territorial. 

The vastly different lifestyles between PR angels and humans were innocuous at first but once gas expired for everybody except angels (as they discovered their grace could refresh fuel) it drove a wedge into angel-human relations. Especially when it became common knowledge that angels could do this and wouldn’t share how. Then, they were seen as mysteriously powerful and technologically advanced, secretive and transient. It wasn’t even 2 PR when Castiel first noticed the unease and tension rising between angelic roving caravans and the humans.

Castiel glanced at the stitched gashes on his forearm. It had been broken yesterday but his advanced healing had gotten him out of the brace earlier this morning. His attacker had been an alpha slave runner at a market in Jackson, Tennessee. She’d caught Castiel touching her slaves’ foreheads and filling their bellies. Usually it went unnoticed, discreet and deft as Castiel was with his touches but the looks of relief and gratitude on the omega slaves caught the alpha’s eyes. It had been grounds for attack. She had transformed and chomped down on his arm, ripped him back and forth like a rag doll before Hannah came to his rescue. 

When all was said and done, the human peacekeepers at the market turned a blind eye and Castiel’s grace would simply heal him within the week. Now, traveling next to Dumah as he was, his arm was a few days into that estimate and it still ached. He rubbed at it, unable to stop thinking of slavery and this cruel new world order the humans had created for themselves. 

Before the Rapture, about twenty percent of the population adhered to alpha beta omega sex designations. Now, a hundred percent of the humans on Earth were either alphas, betas, or omegas. Unlike the angels, they didn't believe the Rapture had anything to do with God but rather suggested it was a freak evolutionary bottleneck of disastrous, global proportions and they had managed to survive which thusly made them the fittest of the species. They explained the angels as a tiny population of non-ABO humans that had survived and inexplicably, collectively, decided to believe the Rapture. Or something along those lines. Honestly, Castiel had never spent enough time with a human to thoroughly examine what they thought of them.

In turn, Castiel hadn’t given much thought to ABO humans prior to the Rapture. However, these days he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. It was most often in the passenger seat of Dumah’s Jeep like he was now, rifle by his side, staring off into the vast fields of wild corn so typical of midwestern America. He would fall into long bouts of contemplation over them. How, over the infinitesimal timespan of only seven years, these new humans had developed a social hierarchy and caste system that Castiel hadn’t seen since the biblical era. Wildly unjust, brutish and violent, Castiel hoped if he pondered about them enough he'd perhaps find his way to understanding them.  
  
Raphael pulled off ahead and Dumah followed along with the rest of them into the parking lot of an outside mall. As usual, they bumped over the sidewalks and drove onto the pavement originally meant only for shoppers until they reached a large center plaza. A dry, round, generic water fountain was in the middle. Here, either Gabriel or Balthazar would use their grace to procure both water and pressure enough to get the fountain started again while Raphael would delegate scavenging operations on the mall as well as lunch arrangements. Castiel was well known for his ability to find food so he was cast to lead in those efforts.

Despite the angelic civility and organization, it was a very different matter how the angels thought of humans. Many of Castiel’s brothers and sisters were pleased about humanity’s trend back to draconian laws and society. They remembered the biblical era fondly, and so too they appreciated the savage simplicity of it now. Some of them even broke off from angelic caravans to stay and live with the humans. Castiel noticed, not without perturbation, how they were the ones who perhaps would’ve joined Lucifer were it several millennia ago.

Castiel was one of the rare few angels that couldn’t imagine living among them. Admittedly, all he’d seen of them was what transpired in marketplaces and other public grounds and territories... but it was enough. More than enough.

Castiel swallowed and closed his eyes as he waited in line for lunch before everyone would break to commence their respective duties. He felt the gentle wind on his face and thought of nothing else.

* * *

When Dean regained consciousness his eyes were crusty, practically glued shut with sleep or blood or both or… well, he could think of a couple other substances. He couldn’t use his sense of smell because his nose was clogged, probably still broken. 

If it hadn’t healed by now, it must have been a bad night.  
  
He heard others around him, awake and bustling around the barracks, knocking against his bunk and making the rickety structure creak and sway. His stomach rumbled and he had to pee but he decided against getting up to solve either of those problems, not wanting to move and discover just what else would hurt. He closed his eyes to go back to sleep. Only sleep would allow him to heal by the time he’d have to clock in again for the evening. 

Another night, another temporary heat inducer shoved down his throat, another forced position to take in whatever room had been reserved, another brutal alpha. 

Sometimes it was more than one. Last night it had been more than one; Dean didn’t have to move his legs to figure that out.

If he wanted to, if he worked at it, Dean could probably remember last night. He never made an effort though. The flashbacks and dreams would come unbidden to him regardless; no need to make a conscious effort to recall them when his own subconscious forced them on him well enough. 

He didn’t have a blanket; he didn’t need one. Omegas were always warm. Dean curled up and held himself, tried to make himself small. 

He was the most popular omega at Navy Pier, the least envied omega in Chicago. 

* * *

“Castiel?” 

Castiel looked up as he ate a can of peaches from the back of the Jeep. They called this tailgating before the Rapture, he knew. The humans would do it in parking lots during football games. They didn’t tailgate anymore though; no humans used cars at all. Not unless there was an angel around willing to refresh it for them but there was an unspoken rule against that. No angels trusted humans enough to use vehicles again. Even the angels that broke off to live with the humans pretended to be alphas. Castiel scowled at the thought, unconsciously massaging his injured arm.

They’d stopped in Carbondale, Illinois. Over the huge outdoor mall plaza, above the now-working fountain, a huge flag of a sleek dog, maroon lines against white, flapped in the wind. Castiel remembered they’d passed a stadium with the same flag, the same colors emblazoned around the signs around it. There used to be throngs, enormous crowd masses of people in this world. Castiel marveled at what once had been.

“Castiel?” the voice called again, a note of impatience in it. It was Balthazar, the most petulant angel Castiel had ever met. The trait perplexed Castiel: a lack of patience for anything in this world made little sense. Balthazar had nowhere to be just the same as the rest of them.

To eke some small amusement out of the situation, Castiel nodded calmly and idly made his way over to Balthazar's RV. The angel dramatically beckoned him, whispering _faster, faster_ the closer he came and Castiel couldn’t hide a smirk as he finally stepped up and inside the vehicle, hearing the angel’s exasperated sigh of relief as he slammed the door shut behind them.

As Castiel turned, his eyes widened at the sight of so many angels present. He’d only been expecting Gabriel. 

When they weren’t falling out, Balthazar and Gabriel shared this RV. Nobody really asked the nature of the relationship; nobody really cared and that included Castiel. Instead though, besides Gabriel lazily sprawled in the driver’s seat, there were others: Anael, Hannah, Samandriel, Dumah, Gadreel, and… someone he didn’t recognize. He was smirking, his dimples deep, a glint in his eyes, looking at Castiel like he was gloating over a game he’d already won between them. 

Castiel scowled back.

“Castiel, let me introduce you to Victor Henricksen,” Balthazar started. “He trades in Springfield, mostly. More recently, Chicago. He’s proven himself to us time and time again.”

“Why is he looking at me like that?” Castiel interrupted bluntly. Henricksen chuckled at Castiel’s expense, looking around the RV expecting others to do the same. The angels did no such thing, and somehow the man wasn’t off-put.

“I’m looking at you like this, Castiel, because I think you’ll like what I have to say.”

* * *

Castiel strolled the boardwalk of Navy Pier, a nice spring chill in the air at dusk. The area was mostly empty, save for some homeless on benches or around bonfires, waiting for the full moonrise to beg for money when the alphas came out. They were betas, no doubt, as alphas had seized power in this PR caste system and omegas were so “valued” by the alphas that any one of them just resting along the boardwalk would’ve been captured soon enough.  
  
Castiel had deliberately dressed nicer than most of the humans he’d met. He still had the power to clean himself at will so all he needed to do was find a suit that fit before giving it an angelic launder. He’d found it in a store called Burberry’s along what PR Chicagoans had called ‘The Magnificent Mile.’

The homeless betas stared at him but he didn’t mind. He hoped word of him would get around so he’d be approached instead of having to pick an establishment or an omega slave himself. But to be asked to choose whose life to save tonight in a room of so many was a horror Castiel knew he might have to face.

* * *

Tonight was a “toga party.” All the omegas done up like the ancient Greeks, nothing but white, lightweight scratchy sheets draping over their naked bodies. The metal collars remained, vinyl leashes added so they could be toted around once rented-by-auction for the evening.

Dean’s eyes swam under the house lights as they shafted on and the night’s bidding began as he and the other omegas stood in a line onstage. Dean paid no mind, just floated on the initial psychedelic effects of the heat inducer. He could feel his body reacting, the wetness and warmth, the low-grade and inexplicably bland hum of arousal that was more annoying than anything when it was against his will. Still, the alphas with the best front row seats, biggest wallets, and least inhibitions would scent it soon enough. Then the bidding would really get started.

True to form, Dean distantly recognized the sounds of more frenzied shouts and hollers, the auctioneer spitting with excitement as the offers soared.

The lights blinded him again as the lighting director, only a _moderately_ cruel alpha on the overall spectrum of alpha cruelty, did her trademark shock of all-lights-on before plunging the stage - and the sold omegas still standing on it - into pitch darkness. 

Blinking through the aggressive afterimage of aggressive stage lights and disoriented, Dean was shuffled down the line of omegas, his crown of leaves nearly falling off but he caught it, placed it back on his head properly, carefully, hoping the mistake hadn’t been noticed in the dark. A whip lashed out, striking him down his spine. Dean gasped and stumbled but he bore it well as they all did, falling back into pace as his back healed up.  
  


When he got down to the pit, his tears had already dried and there was nothing but a slash down the back side fabric of his toga, bloodied at the edges but exposing unmarred skin. The memory of the pain was still fresh though. Dean behaved. His client for the night would arrive here any minute now.

It was still pitch dark, with omega bodies moving, whispering, shuffling. A few alphas towering over them shouted directions. A pull on his collar from a self-assured, alpha-smelling hand was all that was needed to drag Dean wherever he thought he needed to go. 

“You go here,” the alpha said mostly to himself as he locked Dean’s collar to a ring in the wall. Dean remained obedient. The alpha walked off again to position another omega. 

Dean turned and realized he was closer to the light of a hallway outside. He squinted, trying to get his eyes to adjust. In just a few short minutes he’d be walking out there into Navy Pier’s toga party on the arm of his highest bidder. He hoped this one didn’t like to share. Most of them didn’t but there was something about togas that made alphas go crazier than normal. Something about the brutal, debaucherous lifestyles they associated with ancient Rome, perhaps. Dean had no idea if their musings over that era were accurate. They probably weren’t.

Suddenly a hand on his bicep jerked him around to face a pair of sad blue eyes drilling into his own. Before Dean could even react, the man raised two fingers up and pressed them to his forehead.

* * *

* * *

Dean came to with a start. With unusual lucidity and speed, he registered he was strapped down to a cot bolted to the side of a moving, windowless van. His mind spun under the novelty of it. He’d never been in a moving vehicle in his entire life.

“Hello?” he called out fearfully, rearing up but falling back immediately once the body restraints made themselves known. He looked down. The folds of his toga were strewn haphazardly around him under the straps across his chest, hips, wrists, and ankles. Curiously, nothing was latched to his collar. Also, his body felt surprisingly strong and healthy, like he hadn’t been hurt at all during his blackout. Weird.

He didn’t know what time it was but the heat inducer had clearly worn off, so well over nine hours must have passed. He should be back in the barracks. Where the hell was he?

The van rattled and terrified, a desperate tear broke free and slid down his cheek. _Please_ , he prayed to no one in particular. He couldn’t put his yearning for mercy into anything more than that one word.

The van’s brakes squealed and everything came to a screeching halt.

Dean couldn’t even blink he was so scared. He shifted around frantically, trying to see the driver but to no avail. He wanted to call out again but he locked his jaw and waited instead. He had to be the reason the van pulled over and if speaking was off-limits, shouting more would only get him into worse trouble.

Dean chided himself over revealing he was awake in the first place. He shouldn’t have let on. But honestly he hadn’t thought any driver would go to the trouble of _stopping_ because of it. He’d thought the driver would ignore him like alphas always did. At least when they weren’t in a predatory mood.

On the heels of that thought, Dean broke out into a cold sweat, trembling, and trying to curl in as much as the restraints would allow. Without a heat inducer, any predatory urges carried out upon him would be agony.

The driver’s door opened and slammed shut. Unhurried, rhythmic footsteps on the gravel outside, nothing but the vehicle’s aluminum wall between them now. Dean held his breath as he tracked the sound to the back doors near his feet. He shivered and grasped at his restraints, his knuckles going white.

The doors opened and light burst through into the space. Dean recoiled and gasped, blinking through what must have been a noon sun, directly overhead.

The silhouette of a man’s figure holding the double-doors open slowly came into focus. 

“Dean Winchester, you are saved.” The voice was deep but soft. 

Dean swallowed. The silence lasted far too long. The man simply stayed where he was, holding his statuesque posture, looking down at him. Meanwhile Dean kept squinting, trying but unable to get a good look with the sun back-lighting the man.

“Uh. What?”

The man smoothly stepped up into the van, being oddly careful over the nice tan trench coat he wore. Dean’s eyes adjusted further to notice the trench was worn over a weathered Henley shirt and ripped jeans. He cringed, recognizing the wardrobe of a wacko when he saw it, and pressed himself into the cot away from the man. Then he noticed his eyes.

“You’re… the same guy. Last night,” Dean spoke in fragments as he tried to understand what he was smelling now. It was unlike anything he’d scented before. This man was no alpha.

“I am,” the man confirmed, nodding as he bent over Dean. Dean braced himself for pain but the man simply began to release the belt across his chest. “These are no longer necessary,” he said glibly. He gave Dean no more of an explanation than that. 

“Cool, thanks,” Dean said roughly, shocked, as the man perfunctorily released him from _every_ strap holding him down. 

Dean hadn’t been this physically free in years. He sat himself up, wary, and massaged his wrists. The man finished unlocking the last ankle strap and turned back to Dean.

“I am Cas-” but he didn’t finish because Dean punched him in the face. The man - _Cas?_ Dean wondered, _weird name_ \- gasped, clutched his eye and fell back against the van’s wall. 

“Fuck, shit, fuck shit,” Dean murmured to himself as he hurriedly shimmied down the cot and kicked the van doors open. 

He jumped out barefoot onto gravel, slammed the van doors shut, and turned around. The van had parked on a clean and orderly street lined with modestly tall buildings. A small city outside Chicago then, Dean deduced. Scavenged but firmly abandoned as it was a far cry less dirty and decrepit than anywhere around the still-occupied Chicago Loop.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun beat down on him and despite everything, it felt good. A benediction. 

Freedom.  
  
Dean heard the man - Cas - move around in the van. Dean glanced back at the doors before he took off, darting into the nearest alley. 

He considered shifting but thought better of it in case he’d have to hide. His smaller form as a full-fledged human would better suit his needs right now than shifting a foot taller with more lean muscle added to him. Granted, the enhanced sight, smell, and hearing would help him, not to mention sharpened claws and teeth, but still Dean chose against it: he wasn’t in combat so he didn’t need those traits, and if everything went his way, he wouldn’t _be_ in combat anytime soon. 

The alley’s paving was smooth under his feet and it felt good. He focused on the speed and rhythm of his strides. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to run free like this. Without warning he remembered with so much clarity the days he’d had a family, a little brother he doted on and who followed him everywhere, watching him and wanting to be him. They’d run around and play in the backyard that expanded out into a wild field until it hit the edges of a forest preserve. The sound of little Sammy’s peels of laughter rang in Dean’s ears. He used to be fascinated by the glassy wind chimes on the porch while the sun was going down, a kaleidoscope of shapes and light of every color of the rainbow speckling over their skin and clothes as he’d sit in Dean’s lap and watch them move. He’d giggle as he tried to catch them.

Dean came up short at a street sign, pulling himself out of his distracting reverie because he knew he had to gather his bearings and that started with street signs. This one read ‘Davis Street.’ He prayed he’d be able to find a map soon.

Dean stepped backwards and pivoted to launch into a run, crashing into a warm, trenchcoated man and causing them both fall to the ground. 

The cement was damp, loose pebbles digging into his hair and scalp. Dean didn’t need to look to know it was Cas again: if the trenchcoat hadn’t warned him, his smell was pervasive and identifiable enough. 

“Get off me!” Dean tried to roll away but the man grabbed at him. They grappled, each getting some hits in, and Dean’s heart sinking as he sensed the man was pulling his punches. Finally, the struggle ending with the man straddling Dean’s waist. The man stared down at him, his palm heavy against Dean’s chest, keeping him down.

“Let me go!” Dean growled, throwing another punch but the man deftly snatched his wrist and held it without blinking. As much as Dean was surprised by the man’s strength, it was the no-blinking thing that bothered him the most. The man’s deep blue eyes bore into his. The scrutiny was chilling. 

“Please!” Dean begged and his voice cracked. He gritted his teeth, hating how weak he sounded just then, and bucked and struggled as he screamed, his voice breaking a few times more. “What are you doing? Who are you? Where are you taking me, man?!” He kept trying and failing to get out from under the man’s weight. 

It wasn’t long before he’d exhausted himself. Tears slipped down his cheeks in defeat. The man still held him down, tight as ever, no doubt in case Dean was faking.

“Dean Winchester,” the man said, again so soft and kind on his lips. Dean winced. His lips quivered as he looked up at the man. “I am Castiel. You have been saved.”

Dean sniffed and closed his eyes, let his cheek rest on the pavement. He nearly let out a sob when he realized he was starting to like Castiel’s scent. 

“What…” Dean was afraid to ask. “Where’s this new nightmare I’m getting ‘saved’ for this time, huh?” he said, mock-casual and dripping with cynicism and grief.

Castiel tilted his head, brows furrowed with interest but Dean couldn’t sense any malice in it. Dean met his eyes.

“We’re going to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada, Dean Winchester.”

Dean jutted his jaw out and considered the random answer. It was probably accurate: who would lie about going to a town in Ontario?

“I am an angel of the lord. I have-

“An _angel_.” Dean gagged on his laughter. Castiel tilted his head in fascinated bewilderment. “Yeah, okay,” Dean said, voice dull. Castiel nodded, missing the sarcasm, and continued.

“I have come to take you there.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean heaved. He licked his lips, heart thundering in his chest as he took a risk: “If you’ve really come save me then get the fuck off me.” He struggled weakly, illustrating the firm hold Castiel still had on him.

“Will you promise not to run again?” Castiel hedged, for the first time worry flickering past his face. 

Dean grimaced as his eyes brimmed with tears. He so fiercely wanted to run again and be free on his own damn terms. He nodded in defeat though, unable to deny his lack of choice in the matter. Castiel’s eyes widened with interested hope as he gradually released pressure on Dean and lifted up.

* * *

* * *

Dean scrambled away when he could, crawling backwards and standing up. Castiel remained kneeling where he was, his gaze following Dean up as he stood warily, waiting for Castiel to object and launch an attack. 

Instead they stared at each other. 

Dean had to admit he was comforted by their new positions no matter how superficial he knew them to be. Less superficial was the fact that Castiel was making no further moves to stop him from doing anything.

Dean swallowed and looked down, brushed himself off. The toga fabric was thin to begin with and now it was torn and dirty from their skirmish. He kept patting himself down, stalling, trying to think. The man had said he was Castiel, an _angel_ and to be fair, he sure as hell smelled unlike anything Dean had scented before. But he needed better proof the man was telling the truth-

Then it clicked: the van. The van that needed gas. And only angels knew how to get fresh gas.

_Holy shit, Castiel really was an angel._

Dean stumbled back a step, wrapped his arms across his chest. Dean had never met a real angel before. He thought they were just regular humans, religious gypsies with crippling survivor’s guilt. 

Dean studied Castiel. Those assumptions were obviously not the case. Castiel had neutralized Dean quickly and though Dean was just an omega, usually the weakest of the ABOs, all ABO humans were stronger than the regular ones from before the Rapture.

Despite himself, Dean’s interest was piqued over what else everybody had gotten wrong about angels. He shuffled in place and bit his lip.

“Okay. What would an angel want with me? What’s in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario?” he challenged.

Castiel stood up and his eyes searched the skies before they rested upon Dean again to give his answer. “Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario is where the first group of humans allied with angels Post-Rapture.”

“Yeah right,” Dean scoffed. “There’s no way that’s happened. I’d have heard of it. We all would’ve.”

“Well,” Castiel lifted his eyebrows, nodded his head. “It did happen seventy-two hours ago.” 

Dean’s jaw dropped. Castiel didn’t notice. 

“I would give the news more time to spread. In the meantime, angels like myself have volunteered to do this.” Castiel gestured to him.

Dean ticked his head back. “Do what exactly?”

“Save omegas.” Castiel’s eyes were crystal blue, expression open and bright. His eyes and scent had been digging trust into Dean since the beginning, dismantling his resistance to the tiny burgeoning spark of hope growing in his heart and gut but at these two simple words of reply from the angel, Dean chilled to the bone and shut down. Fear and dread seeped into every inch of him instead and Castiel shuffled in place, looking distinctly agitated like he could sense Dean’s reaction. He stepped towards Dean in confusion and Dean took an immediate step back.

“Don’t,” he warned, his hand up. Castiel swallowed and nodded, looking sad from the rejection but nevertheless obeyed. Despite himself, it ticked another notch of trust for Dean. “What… what do you want omegas for?” Dean barely whispered.

Castiel looked up, alarmed, then softened with understanding. Instead of the sadistic glee and pleasure Dean expected when people realized he was afraid, Dean’s fear had evoked compassion. It hit Dean harder than he thought, his own fight and flight instincts melting away under Castiel’s presence.

“To lead the way for us, Dean.”

“Us?”

“The angels have allied with _omega_ humans,” Castiel clarified gently. “Omegas will lead our alliance.”

“Why the hell would angels follow omegas?” Dea spat, self-hate and disbelief mingling over Castiel’s words. He couldn’t wrap his mind around this. His own kind found omegas in leadership positions as diametric to the natural order of things so how could angels ever consider this.

Castiel looked thoughtful, obviously considering the question carefully. 

"Do you condone slavery?"

"Hell no," Dean barked.

"Then I prefer your leadership already."

Dean clenched his jaw so it wouldn’t quaver under the emotions that simple statement evoked. He shook his head. “S’not enough to convince me.”

Castiel squinted then nodded with understanding. He radiated soothing patience and Dean fought against falling under its spell. “Angels are not of this realm,” he said, starting again to explain. “We were created to witness... and to step into the affairs of humans only when God commanded it.” Castiel fixed an encouraging gaze upon Dean. “Things are different though now, Dean.” He stepped closer and Dean let him, a pained look on his face as he searched Castiel’s eyes for deception and found none. This was too good to be true though, Dean insisted to himself, his eyes brimming with tears.

“I just think,” Castiel whispered, now moving into Dean’s personal space and looking so deep into his eyes it felt like a light on his soul flickering around and healing his wounds. “Omegas, as leaders, would be a nice change of pace.”

Dean licked his lips and shook his head frantically. He put his hands up. “Please, please don’t be fucking with me,” he whimpered, backing up as Castiel stretched his hand out and his. Dean didn’t try to defend himself, he knew he was no physical match to the angel.

“Please, please, no no-” Dean’s breath caught in a strangled scream at the searing hot pain that shot through his neck. Immediately after, a warm palm covered the burns and healed the flesh just as Dean both watched and heard the ringing clatter of his collar hitting the ground.

“I’m not... fucking, with you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel whispered, his tone weighted with sincerity and kindness. 

Dean stared at his collar in disbelief. Castiel moved his palm back behind Dean’s bowed head and massaged the area with a gentle touch. “Everything is about to get better, Dean. I promise.” 

Dean’s chest quaked first, just punches of emotion hitting his heart and gut before he gasped the deepest inhale of his life, like he’d been suffocating his entire life until just now, just this one moment releasing him to breach the surface and finally breathe.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, concerned, but caught him as he collapsed to the ground and finally let himself fall apart, tears flowing as he stared at the now-warped metal of the collar, the overwhelming anguish and relief shattering him apart as he wept. 

“It’s okay, Dean. You’re safe,” Castiel’s voice soothed and Dean crested another wave of sobs. Castiel used his strength and tucked him up against his body. 

A soft, sweet hum trilled out and Dean startled in Castiel’s arms when his vision, blurry from tears, still fixed on the destroyed collar, was eclipsed by a wall of smooth, glowing feathers curling around them. 

“What-?” Dean gasped, astonished and blinking to see the beaming variations of gray plumes circling themselves around them.

Castiel tipped his own head into the crook of Dean’s, bringing them into a full embrace. “No more harm will be done to you now, Dean Winchester,” the angel promised. 

Dean wept but nodded, melting into the angel’s embrace. 

Castiel’s wings circled in closer around them and for the first time in his life, Dean knew what it was to be saved.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please kudos+comment if you can spare the time! And again nav to [liliaeth brilliant art post to give her kudos!](https://liliaeth.livejournal.com/509404.html)
> 
> PS Happy Turkey Day to my fellow Americans! 🦃🍴❤️️  
> PPS Also [come say hi to me on tumblr](https://fogsrollingin.tumblr.com/) bc I want friends 👍🤗


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